


Farewell Wanderlust

by adhdbuck



Series: Possession [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Please ask for tags if you think something should be tagged, Sequel, Tags as I go, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adhdbuck/pseuds/adhdbuck
Summary: The demon had left behind the husk of a man Geralt once knew.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Possession [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107386
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Farewell Wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

> title by the amazing devil because 1. i am not creative 2. i love joey and madeleine 3. it matches the tone I'm shooting for with this fic so like, I kinda had to use it 
> 
> this is a sequel so it won't make a lot of sense to read this first? but like you do you I can't stop you
> 
> uhhhh... i think that's it.....
> 
> please enjoy :3

The air at Kaer Morhen was tense, to say the least.

It had been a month since Geralt and Jaskier arrived, a month since…well.

A month since the night that Geralt had begun to regret as he stared at the closed door to Jaskier’s room.

Since the bard had not spoken nor even stood in the same room as him for longer than necessary.

Though, he was hardly a bard anymore.

Geralt had not once heard the plucking of his lute nor the sound of his voice no matter how hard he strained his ears.

Sometimes, he wondered if it would have been better to pretend.

Pretend that the demon was Jaskier, that Jaskier was still the naïve young man he had grown to care for. Grown to love, perhaps.

But whenever he goes down that line of thought, whenever he feels the rush of arousal remembering how primal and rough Jaskier fucked him into the dirt,

It’s replaced with bile and with regret and with such pain and with so much guilt that sometimes he can hardly get out of bed because he _should have known_.

Jaskier was a man who spoke as though it was his last dying breath, a man who held himself with pride that hid a deep inner monologue Geralt would never hear,

Jaskier was imperfect, and he was broken and loud and sarcastic and found himself in troubles beyond himself,

But _gods,_ at least it was him.

He should have known that the man who tapped him on the shoulder with a sly smirk was not him, but he wanted it to be so badly,

Geralt wanted to be forgiven. He wanted his sins to be wiped from his body like the blood of an assassin’s blade,

And when Jaskier told him that he did not _care_ , that it did not affect him when Geralt had tossed him aside,

It felt good.

Because Geralt was imperfect too, he had his flaws,

He could be too crass, too hard-headed, unemotional, angry, ill-tempered, quick to react,

So when he let Jaskier back in, he had been forgiven,

But he should have known.

Because the man held grudges,

Cursing his enemies and writing songs to damn those who cross them for all eternity, Jaskier was not one to easily forgive. Geralt would have had to grovel on his knees and repeat the words “I’m sorry” till his tongue swelled and his throat collapsed, and his knees turned to ash,

And even then, would it be enough?

Perhaps, the only way he could rectify the situation was to execute him.

Geralt should have slipped back into their room the night he saw the shadow drape itself over the man he…

And he should have pressed the silver into his heart and watched as the light drained from its eyes.

He should have killed him when he begged for it while blood poured from his eyes as Yennefer ripped the thing from his body.

But he didn’t, and there’s no reason why, not any that would satiate Jaskier.

Because it turns out the Witchers do feel, and to kill the bard,

Well, it’s rather a selfish reason not to comply with the man’s commands,

But killing Jaskier would be killing himself,

And Geralt has far too many things left to do in this life, so Jaskier must live so that he may see to them. Even if the man never wants anything to do with him again, at least Geralt will know that he still lives.

A sentiment that had been put to the test many times, whenever Jaskier avoided his eyes, whenever he kept himself at the doorway, whenever he stayed in his room weeks at a time, it drove Geralt mad. He was so _sick_ of him and so angry with himself for it that even thinking about the man for more than a second sent him reeling to the nearest bucket to upend that night’s dinner.

A sentiment that would be put to the test again as Jaskier’s voice echoed through the halls down to the lounge where Geralt currently resided with his brothers,

“GET OUT!”

For a second, Geralt had felt relief. It was the first time he had words from the bard’s mouth that weren’t a simple yes or no.

But the feeling was fleeting, as with most things.

Eskel was saying something, but Geralt had already left the room and came across Yennefer, who was consoling a tearful Ciri,

“What happened?” He knew.

Ciri just sniffed, forcing the tears to retreat, and Yennefer gathered the girl into her arms,

“Go ask your bard.”

Geralt nodded and began heading to his room.

His bard, his responsibility,

His burden.

“He didn’t mean it,” Ciri grabbed hold of his arm. She had lost the battle, “please don’t get angry at him,”

“Ciri…”

“He’s so sad,” The tears were coming faster, and Geralt could barely understand her, “there’s so much black surrounding him I can’t…”

She breaks down into sobs, and Yennefer scoops her back into her arms,

“Fix this, Witcher.”

The door is open when he arrives, and he can see Jaskier enveloped in the firelight, just as he was a month ago,

But that was not Jaskier,

Though is this him either?

“Do you ever think of the beaches where lightning strikes and the sand that turns to glass?” Geralt almost recoils from the strong stench of alcohol wafting off of his voice but stills as he sees the shard of glass in his hand, “What a sight to see…”

Geralt walks forward. Jaskier still stares into the glass, turning it over and over as if though maybe one of those turns might transform it into a diamond,

“Jaskier, what happened?” He knew.

“Maybe, if I went there,” as Geralt crouches in front of him, he can see the hollow of his face and the bruising beneath his eyes, “the lightning would turn me into glass too, maybe then I…” He ends the sentence with a bitter laugh.

It is the first time that Geralt has seen him, and he should have killed him when he had the chance because Jaskier is nothing more than a walking corpse. Just loose flesh and bones that are slowly rotting.

Jaskier goes to grip the glass in his hands, but Geralt grabs it before he can, and all the bard does is sigh,

“Tell me what happened,” Geralt grits his teeth, trying not to let his voice waver.

And for the first time since the last, Jaskier looks at him, but can it really be called that if there is nothing left behind his eyes?

“You should have killed me, Geralt.”

How he wants to swim in his own name and bathe in the way that it flows out of Jaskier’s mouth, to let it rush over him like lava and burn him until there is nothing left,

But he can’t, “I know.”

“So do it,” Jaskier lets his head fall back against the back of the chair, throat exposed, “Kill me.”

It would be easy to wrap his hands around the bard’s throat, to crush his windpipe, to watch as he struggled and scratched at his arms even though it was what he asked for because the body wants to live no matter how much it wants to die.

It would be so easy,

“No.” Geralt still has things to do,

Jaskier’s head rolls off to the side, “Then leave.”

“No.” There are so many things left to do.

“You are a bastard Geralt of Rivia.” The bard sneers.

“I have been called worse things.” He attempts a smile to quell the stirring rage in the man’s eyes, but it only feels like a slight pull of his skin.

Jaskier just scoffs, limply removing himself from his seat to trudge his way over to the liquor cabinet, kicking the broken shards of glass to the side as he passes. As he opens, the cabinet Geralt peeks around him as he stands from his crouch, noticing that the empty bottles vastly outnumber the quarter-filled ones,

“You shouldn’t drink so much.” Geralt finds the words leaving him before he can think to stop him, but as the arrow of a crossbow, there is no asking for its return,

“Do not tell me what to do, _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier spits, not bothering to look at him as he pours his poison of choice, “you lost that privilege a long time ago.”

Of all the scars that littered his body, Geralt could not think of one that hurt more than the sting of his words.

He just sighs, reminding himself that the man he knew and whatever he would become is gone.

“Is that why you yelled at Ciri?” If Jaskier was unwilling to engage in pleasantries, then Geralt wasn’t either.

For a man who had so many words stored away in him, he chose this moment to keep them locked away. Ignoring Geralt to pour the liquor down his throat.

It was too much for Geralt, who had been carrying around his rage with him like a mule galloping on a cliff’s edge. He felt as it clawed its way to his throat, ripping and tearing until all he saw was a fire burning hot on the back of the man he loved,

“She’s just a child, Jaskier!”

Silence.

“Just because you’ve got shit doesn’t mean you can pile it on her!”

Jaskier’s shoulders tensed, but Geralt was blind as he strode forward and forced the bard to look him in the eye, gripping his arms like a wolf’s mouth around the neck of a freshly killed rabbit,

“Say something!”

As soon as the words left him, he felt his emotions calm once more. Geralt released Jaskier’s arms, taking a step back to try and attempted to form an apology (an excuse) for his actions, though they all came out as hollow as the look in Jaskier’s eyes,

“I didn’t mean to, Geralt.”

“Jaskier, I…” _know?_ But does he really?

The bard opens his mouth and closes it, quickly grabbing a bottle downing it before opening his mouth once more,

“My mother was always sick when I was a child,” As he talks, he stumbles back over to the armchair. Geralt keeps his feet planted, “my father never let us see her, told us that she was contagious.”

The laugh is barely a breath,

“What does –”

Jaskier just holds up a hand, “But I never quite liked the old man, so I would sneak in to see her from time to time…we had the same colored eyes…” For a moment, they get lost in the fire, but he quickly regains control,

“Anyways, whenever I saw her, she was healthy as a horse. No cough, or runny nose, no complaints of head or body aches, just a beautiful woman trapped in her room.”

Geralt sat in the other armchair to better withstand the waves of words hurtling from Jaskier’s mouth,

“I told her that I wanted to study the lute, to become a master bard,” A whisper of a smile graced his lips at the memory, “and the next time we met, she presented me with a beautiful lute that must have cost a fortune,”

The smile, however quiet, leaves,

“The last time I saw her, I played a small little tune I had learned. She was so proud…”

Geralt’s hand begins to float over to his knee and finally rests it after what seems like an eternity. It is meant to give Jaskier comfort, but it is hard to tell when the man’s face does not change. Still, Geralt keeps his hand there,

“The maid found her in the morning, and the funeral was a closed casket, so we never knew how she died. I snuck into her room, and I thought that maybe it was just my father playing a trick on us, that maybe she was…but she wasn’t.”

He sighs, “Then I found her journals, tucked away under her mattress. Pages upon pages filled with such… _sadness._ She was so lonely, so trapped within her own mind. I read them all, none of them ever mentioned me or any of my siblings, not even her husband or the maids that fluttered in and out, it’s like she couldn’t see them…”

“I thought that I would never let myself turn out like her, that I would travel and see the world. That I would…well it doesn’t matter now.”

The Witcher had never been fond of the bard’s allegories, but this one was much more foreboding than the frivolous ones from before,

“Jaskier, what are you –”

“Don’t worry, Witcher,” His eyes leave Geralt’s, “I deserve an execution I could never carry out myself. That’s why I leave it in your hands.”

The anger rises in him once more, “I will never raise my blade to you, no matter how much you beg.”

Jaskier just hums, vacantly starring into the dying fire.

“Answer me.” Geralt growls, he feels likes tearing into Jaskier’s soul, shredding it till there’s nothing left, but that would be exactly what he wants.

“I want you to suffer, Geralt. That’s all.”

Blue eyes that had once spotted him across a tavern look into Geralt’s,

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Geralt?”

“No.” _Yes._

“As long as I am alive, as long as we both walk this plane together, you will be burdened knowing that you walk beside a murderer and a coward,” He rises, steadier than before, “You will walk into villages and towns years from now and still smell the blood I left behind,” Jaskier slides onto Geralt’s lap, “You will see the children left behind grow with darkness forever surrounding them,” He leans into his ear, “and one day I will die of something mundane, and you will live on to witness the aftermath of my carnage, and that is my curse.”

Geralt rises, holding Jaskier to his chest. All anger had left him long ago, and all that left is pity,

“I shall bear this curse if it means you shall live.”

Tears soaked through his shirt like rain.

* * *

The weeks that followed were less tense.

Sounds of music returned to Jaskier’s room. However, the skill was amateur. The noises of frustration and giddiness of hitting notes sounded peculiarly of a certain child surprise.

Sometimes at night, when Geralt was resting from a long day of training, he could hear quiet humming. Though it was as if the bard knew that he had been listening because as soon as it started, it stopped.

That was not all that had returned, however.

Jaskier began to stay at the table for dinner and would entertain the other wolves with embarrassing stories he had kept tucked away of Geralt. He even spotted the bard, and Yennefer enraptured in hushed discussions with one another, always quieting when Geralt rounded the corner.

It felt as though things were beginning to heal. Geralt was not a fool. He knew that Jaskier would always be plagued by what the demon had done in his skin, he knew that rushing to his room in the middle of the night to quell his dreams would never end, but it would get better.

At least, maybe he was a fool.

He had barely awoken for the day when Ciri rushed into his room, stuttering and stumbling over her words,

“Cirilla, calm down.”

She took a deep breath in and handed a note to him,

_Wolf,_

_I’ve decided to return to my home in Kerack._

_Tell Cirilla to continue her practice._

_~~Lo~~ _ _Best Regards,_

_Jaskier_

“I looked for him everywhere,” She tightened her hands into fists, “he’s gone.”

**Author's Note:**

> [adhdbuck](https://adhdbuck.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to yell at me or chat :3
> 
> comments/kudos/criticisms appreciated <3


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